


Lashing Waters

by elrondhalfelven



Series: Of Elrond Peredhel [12]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dark Magic, Elemental Magic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Lindon (Tolkien), Magic, Medical, Second Age, Supernatural Elements, Supernatural Illnesses, Water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 09:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30086691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrondhalfelven/pseuds/elrondhalfelven
Summary: In which Elrond acknowledges the power of the sea as akin to his own strength when in weakness.*“Elrond commanded it. The river of this valley is under his power, and it will rise in anger when he has great need.”
Series: Of Elrond Peredhel [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2185962
Kudos: 17





	Lashing Waters

_“In those lands I journeyed once, and many things wild and strange I knew.”_

_-Elrond, the Council Of Elrond._

Elrond was unwell. He knew it to be true, for he could feel the encasing hold of pale-green sickness like stinging nettles twining with his veins. The throbbing pain of their touch lingered upon his brow and he shied away from their hold; unconsciously flinching when a healer laid a hand atop his forehead and rustled the thorny leaves against him in burning agony. There was a tumultuous sea within his stomach, restless as it consumed his lifeless form and lashed out in mighty waves which departed his lips into a porcelain basin that rested at his bedside.

“I do not understand; he was fine two days ago…”

“Much can happen in the course of a day.”

“He needs help. He will die if this continues.”

The night was still, but for the oceans restless thrashing. Elrond thought he recognised the sorrowed voice, but it was so very distant; its own despondency far overshadowed by the weeping of the waters within him as they whispered their leaden burdens into his ears, aging his soul by six thousand years not yet passed. A hand brushed against his own, but it was ablaze with clawing fire and his heart yearned only for the chill of winter, the bitter ice caressing the wrath of the waves into a cradling embrace akin to the rocking of a cradle. The fire cowered away from him as he flinched.

“Please. You must help him.”

Such was the command that was given; that Elrond be aided in his recovery and at every worsening of his condition prevented from entering the shadow world to which he drew ever closer to succumbing to. Wise and knowledgeable healers renowned for their greatness were summoned to his sick bed, masters of lore flickering hastily between books in search of answers for the illness which had taken him so very unpredictably; he had been laughingly indulging in a late luncheon before he collapsed. Yet no answers could any of those great folk provide, as Elrond’s condition worsened with every passing hour and the shadows overcast his ailing form with foreboding clouds of darkening grey. Though Elrond was too weak to utter words of condolence- let alone to move his deteriorating body- the weeping of the High King still rang within his ears; tears of love and brotherhood lost brushing against his dreamscape as his friend’s hope dwindled. He heard them, but they meant to him naught; the raucous of the oceans was louder and more destroying, tugging at the hems of his tunic so that he may become submerged beneath their depths. 

Eventually- though Elrond knew not how long he had tarried before the doors of death- a single word of advice was found between the flourishing hand of a long deceased Valinorean healer. 

“The waters shall heal.” proclaimed the parchment. Though it revealed no further council, the archaic text was all that they had and as such arrangements were made for Elrond to be taken from his bed and to a nearby stream which was murmured in folk’s tales to have healing qualities beyond description. A swift horseman would take him, they said. Elrond had lingered upon the borders of consciousness as he heard the High King, his dearest of friends, vehemently assert his right to take Elrond himself to the stream; no other was fit for the role.

Elrond knew better. No other would be more distraught to see him leave. 

For three days they had ridden in haste as the storm within him lurched and crashed against his skin and consciousness; he was given water to drink, to soothe his aches, but it only gave more to the infuriated seas that billowed as though alight within him. Distressed, he cried out in his sleep; the moonlight pitied him and tried to guide him away from the shores but he would not depart, for he was the centre of the storm and the oceans encompassed him, ebbing from his stomach to fill the shadowy void. Each time a hand was laid upon his brow to comfort him and each time he turned away from it in agony.

At some point they ceased their journeying. Elrond was bundled up with ivory shawls and lain down upon the soft grasses as they tickled against his forehead with the evening breeze. He had not the strength to contain the water for any longer and it had begun to brim his eyes and dampen his cheeks as the hazy sunlight touched against his face. His mind was filled with vast, sorrowed oceans, yet now there was something else flickering within his mind; as though the curtains had been drawn to reveal the filtered light of the morning. A myriad of pale blue hued his vision as the lashings of the ocean seemed to fade temporarily into the background of his thoughts.

_Ho now, Elrond, you weep but for what purpose! The sun is without but it storms within, I take it._

The spirit's voice was kind but Elrond wavered before its presence; the waters terrified him, had always brought naught but loss to him, and he knew that when this being left he would be at their mercy once more.

_No no Elrond, you are mistaken; I would not leave you to drown! But what now makes you think that you would be submerged beneath the seas that encompass you at all, hm? The waters are not enemies, lest you would make an enemy of yourself!_

The being spoke in riddles that Elrond’s fatigued mind could not comprehend- though not for lack of trying. He made to convey some form of delicate response, but there were footsteps fast approaching as another voice joined with that of the river-spirit.

“Do not touch him, fiend!” The newcomer roared.

_Your friend names me your enemy now Elrond, ha!_ The spirit whispered within his mind before addressing the other with spoken words:

“Do you both find foes where there are none? It would seem so!”

“Elrond is unwell; why do you speak to him like you have conversed?” 

“But we have! Come now; I know your purpose and of this ghastly sickness. Do you wish to see Elrond restored to his former vigour or nay?”

“Of course I do.” Elrond felt trembling hands adjust his shawl as his friend knelt at his side and made to lift him once more, ceasing to do such as another hand pressed him gently to the ground.

“There are foul creatures yonder; you would be leaving Elrond at their disposal. Do you truly believe that you possess the ability to fight whilst cradling your poorly friend to your chest?”

“He must receive the water. He _must_ heal.”

The dispute between the two faded away into mere whisperings of the wind as a sudden, foreboding dread quenched Elrond’s heart and irked the sea within him once more into grief-stricken thrashings of anger. The waves glittered steel as the melody of swords being drawn drifted over the horizon. The river-spirit’s presence still lingered at the edges of the storm and Elrond felt indescribably safe despite the storming oceans.

Cries of vexation laced together with his vision as a battle began around him; there was a hand made of fire upon his arm and it burnt and stung like nettles thrown into a furnace and brought against his chilled skin. Yet there was an almighty storm within Elrond now and he understood at long last its purpose; not to harm, but to defend him. A furious descension of hail and waves was tearing at his heart and crashing against his skin, for suddenly he _was_ the waters which encompassed him: powerful, infallible and knowledgeable beyond the count of years. He was water, but he would not fall.

The flames cowered away from the lashing thunders which he summoned to him now, the oceans of despair which he had long borne drawing themselves up from where they lay about him and whipping at those who would seek to weaken their Lord with the unquenchable force of a thousand armies of righteous warriors wronged by evil. Elrond lay still, but the storm he himself had conjured crashed and thundered with a rage never before seen as the orcs fled before the awful shrieking of the winds and the harrowing cries of the tempest sea. As the rivers thrashed, the earth shook and hail descended the skies until his foes were gone and could no longer bring about hurt to his weakened form. The High King came to Elrond then, kneeling before him amidst the waters and brushing a hand against his face; his touch was no longer ablaze, for the fires had witnessed Elrond’s wrath and bowed down low before his fea, beholding his power.

“The water rose for him.” His friend’s words were that of incredulousness, but to Elrond there was nothing at all questionable about his power. He was a descendant of the Ainur and he held within himself a storm that could make even the most hardened of foes fall to their knees. That did not bode well for those who would seek to undermine the strength of his will. He needed no weapon; the waters were his sword.

“The river answered it's summons, as a faithful subject does. You came seeking the aid of the water to use in healing, but you were mistaken. There is no greater power than the water, it is true, but you forget whom you behold before you now.”

The spirit turned its formless gaze towards Elrond, leaves rustling against his ebony hair.

“The water shall heal, which it has. But Elrond has not merely been healed by the liquid for which you sought after. Elrond _is_ the water.”

It was unquestionably true, for though Elrond lay still and diminished by sickness he did not drown nor wake as his tunic dampened and his ebony hair ascended the waves which had borne him upon their surface. 

He was water. That power to him alone was granted, for he alone had lost so much to the tide; so much so that his identity had become entwined with its very depths. 

From that day forth, the oceans never ceased to obey Elrond’s every command.


End file.
